


Leave Cold the Night

by shakespearespaz



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: F/M, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-12
Updated: 2013-04-12
Packaged: 2017-12-08 07:21:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/758626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shakespearespaz/pseuds/shakespearespaz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They should not have been.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Leave Cold the Night

Every hasty touch, every forceful kiss, every moment that whispered pleasure should not have been. They should not have been. He was her captor, she his brother’s wife.

But in a world where all else seemed lost, it was too tempting to lose themselves to this world.

They could release at least one aching need in each other; at least one desire that clouded their hearts fulfilled and filled they could press close, the easiest way to remember they were not alone.

Except for the nights they were.

Her mind consumed by children’s faces and destruction invisible but everywhere, his by branded letters and gunfire and blood that ran together.

Rude lips and teeth colliding were not enough to wake them from their nightmare.

Tears were always an option, to both in equal spades. But they were beyond self-pity; the loathing numbed before long and rough days begged conclusions in rough nights.

If they inflicted enough pain would the bruises bring salvation?

If all they were were nails to tear that skin that stuck together, who cared?

The suggestion could never drift far enough from their minds. They could be shadows in their partner’s eyes, wandering souls connecting with the only connection they could make.

Connect.

Like advice from cheap self-help book, it would lose its meaning after a while. Miles had loved too many or else never loved.

Rachel refused to fit either category.

Neither knew what the other was, but in the dark they found it mattered little.

Calloused fingertips mapped old wounds, encircled blemishes, but joined to turn such prying hands away and lay scar to scar, breast to breast.

She could imagine what they looked like.

Her head would be on the pillow next to his, counting stains instead of stars. He would watch her, gentle fingers playing with loose curls. They would be close enough to touch, without embracing.

After all, they were not lovers but shattered fragments taped together with sweat and blood and tears: the woman who destroyed the world and the man who destroyed it again.


End file.
